Thursday Mornings
by anewspringwillcome
Summary: "'And where has that elegance gone,' she wants to scream. She sure doesn't feel elegant or beautiful. And they must feel the same, she knows. She's not sure when everything first changed; all she can remember is that one day she woke up and it was all gone." Cherche contemplates what she has lost and what was never important all along. (Cherche-centric.)


_Author's Note: I wrote this over two years ago as a character-study type of exercise and just stumbled across it again. I thought I'd share it. Enjoy. _

_(Who Cherche married is up to the reader. I didn't write it with any one potential bachelor in mind.)_

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><p><em>Thursday Mornings<em>

The wail of the wooden floorboards resounds throughout her head, the flooring aged and weak. A chair scrapes eerily across the floor. The woman takes her seat with tired grace. "Elegant," she laughs, the sound dry and monotonous.

The sun has just begun to rise over the camp, and the ravishing woman hears the quiet chirping of the birds outside. It is on days like this that she comes here – Thursday mornings. The beautiful woman shakes her head. Her thoughts race on, fighting for dominance. However, one particular thought captivates her mind and scrapes at her brain for attention and resolution. This is the section of her head that questions her own motives and drives at her sanity.

Months ago, she would never have allowed herself to speak aloud while all alone. The possibility of someone hearing her was much too high, what with the other mercenaries milling around aimlessly on mornings like this. Her reputation was too important to simply tarnish by speaking to herself. Today, though, she seems to have forgotten this worry.

The word leaves her lips again, this time sounding exhausted and lost. "Elegant."

The woman shakes her head once more, sending gorgeous locks flying and eventually resting to where they cascade down her back, ever-so-graceful. She repeats this word, not because she is going insane, or because she likes the sound of her own voice, but because it is what she is accustomed to hearing. Still, it sounds somehow foreign to her ears, now. She squeezes her eyes shut, allowing her shoulders to slump in an involuntary moment of lax weakness. Her elegance should define her. It did not too long ago. The entire army spoke of it. _'She seems to walk on air,' _women would whisper in envy and admiration as she passed them. _'She's stunning,' _men would breathe out when she entered the room.

'_And where has that elegance gone?'_ she wants to scream. She sure doesn't _feel_ elegant or beautiful. And they must feel the same, she knows. She's not sure when everything first changed; all she can remember is that one day she woke up and it was all gone. Where were the jealous remarks? Most likely aimed at a younger, more beautiful girl. The love-struck men who placed her on a pedestal? Probably making another woman feel as though she was a goddess.

In a fit of anger, the girl pulls the locket she wears around her neck that bears her name off and throws it to the floor, where it lands with a clank. The young woman suddenly feels as though she is choking on air. Her chest tightens and she blinks back stubborn tears that threaten to fall down her porcelain cheeks. She restrains herself from stomping over to the locket and smashing it under her foot. Perhaps if it is gone, she can forget who she was and watch the pain she feels drift away like all of her friends and family did. Her blurred gaze finds the locket on the floor, and she reads her name as if she has never seen it before in her life. 'Cherche,' the crystalline charm says, written in the tiniest stenciling. She feels almost unworthy to have ever worn such a beautiful piece of jewelry.

Ashamed of herself, the woman cradles her head in her hands. She was beginning to loathe her entire being. And, why not? No one else seems to care for her now, so why should she? The sound of footsteps approaching the door doesn't cause her to lift her head from where she has allowed it to rest on the table. She doesn't care about her image anymore, and besides, no one will spare her a second glance, anyway. The door is thrown open, and a nicely dressed but distraught looking man ambles in and sits down across from her. He doesn't even _look_ at her. His breathing is heavy, and when she opens her eyes to look at him, she feels as though she has been kicked in the stomach.

Of course, it's him. Of course, he is the one to see her this way. The feeling in her stomach, however, lasts only a second – evaporating as soon as she realizes that he _is not_ looking at her. She'd like to pretend it is because he is too caught up in his own thoughts, but she has a sinking feeling that he would not pay attention to her either way. She watches with tired eyes as the man before her begins to cry. The worry that takes over her causes her to forget – if only for a moment - that anything she could say will be ignored. Standing, an arm outstretched across the table, and words of comfort already leaving her lips, the woman realizes ignorantly that this man who used to love her will not acknowledge her.

The door is thrown open again, this time a tall and masculine man dressed just as nicely as the first strides in, looking ever authoritative. A petite girl follows behind, tentatively peeking around him to peer at the sobbing man at the table. "Ah, there you are." The man crosses his arms, looking down at him.

"A-are you alright?" the girl asks in a delicate voice. "You left without warning."

"Don't you know its awful manners to leave so abruptly and loudly in the middle of Mass?" the man hisses. "You sure did make a scene."

Pulling on her formal black dress, the girl frowns. "Don't be so cross. Have you no sympathy? You've been in this exact situation."

At the table, the woman watches with bewildered eyes. She knows the two, has fought side by side with them countless times before. However, she can't put together what it is that has struck the man sitting opposite her. The girl's remark has clearly upset her companion and his eyes become suddenly gentle. He stares down at his friend, who looks vacantly up at him with eyes like the ocean.

"Yes, you're correct," the man moves to rest a sturdy comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "I apologize."

"No," the man lets out, his voice a quiet rasp. "I can't expect to go on like this. If I had to leave in the middle of the service, will I be able to live any longer? I will have to learn control."

"I suppose..." the bigger man admits quietly. Haunting silence fills the room for a moment, before he speaks again, his voice so quiet the woman has to strain to hear it. Confused, she isn't quite sure how she feels - whether frightened or relieved, upset or shocked – when he says:

"_I know you took it the hardest when Cherche died in battle."  
><em>


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